


More Than Skin Deep (by mickeym and halowrites)

by crackfic (mickeym)



Category: Popslash
Genre: Character Study, Crossdressing, Genderbending, Kink, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-10
Updated: 2003-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/crackfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC has a secret he only takes out once in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Skin Deep (by mickeym and halowrites)

**Author's Note:**

> Co-authored as Crackfic with the lovely halowrites.

The first time he does it, his hand shakes so hard it's difficult to get the dark line across the bottom lid of his eyes; harder still to get the dark red lipstick onto his lips without smearing it all over. It's odd, to watch his face undergo this transformation, to see things that are familiar become--not. To watch his eyes go from bright and questioning and smiling, to something lined and dark, almost sultry. To watch his mouth pout and pucker, red-stained and ready.

He's fifteen when he discovers how good silk feels when he rolls it up his legs, and how much better it feels if he shaves his legs, first. Smooth, cool silk sliding up the sensitive skin, and he shivers the entire time it takes him to get the stockings on. They're banded with elastic at the tops, and so sit on his thighs, digging gently into the skin there. The panties -- black silk, to match the stockings -- feel odd, but good. He shifts, watches himself in the mirror. The corset hurts the first time he laces it up, but eventually he learns to breathe with it on, likes the way it cinches his waist in, makes his hips flare out ever-so-slightly.

He's fifteen, and he likes the way he looks.

JC licks his glossy lips and wonders if anyone else would like the way he looks.

~ ~ ~

At seventeen, his hand shakes just as much, but now it's with anticipation. He finishes lining his eyes, slicks gloss over his bottom lip with a careful finger, and looks at himself. Even now, even after the countless times he's done this, for a moment he doesn't recognize himself. It's like glancing up and seeing a stranger staring back at him, and he feels something twisting through him long and slow -- that feeling is something he recognizes, only too well.

Heat flares briefly in his face, along his skin, settling in the pit of his belly as he finishes dressing. He runs his hands over his legs, the gentle hiss of silk beneath his fingertips, up and over the gathered lace of the corset, along his collarbone. It's almost unconscious how even his gestures become more feminine when he's dressed like this, his touch more delicate, more elegant somehow. JC licks his lips, tasting strawberry thick in his mouth, on his tongue.

His cock, thick and hard already beneath sheer black panties-- that's definitely not feminine, and nor is the soft moan he makes when he slides his hand down to wrap long, painted fingers around it.

~ ~ ~

At eighteen, he doesn't shake at all. He shivers internally, but his hands are steady, motionless, painting his face with the ease of practice.

Steady is good, he thinks, when he cups himself carefully and shaves his balls, scraping the razor very gently over thin, so thin skin.

He's hard and aching even before drawing the panties upward, and the sting of freshly shaved skin is muted a bit by the cool, slick fabric. His stockings increase the shivers; no matter how many times he puts them on, he relives the first time in his head, the way they seemed to slither up his legs on their own, the soft hiss he made at the sensation of silk against skin.

Tonight he pinches his nipples hard before putting the corset on; they draw up hard and tight, ache a bit when the lace and silk rub against him. He can cinch it tighter than ever, and strokes himself through the panties as his breathing adjusts.

Fingernails scrape when he jerks himself slowly, fabric sliding up and down over his erection. He rubs at his nipples through the corset and jerks faster, eyes narrowing as he watches himself in the mirror. He closes his eyes and thinks about someone -- another man -- doing this, jerking him off as they kiss, of leaving red, slick trails on someone's skin while they make him come.

JC groans softly and bites hard into his bottom lip as he comes in his panties.

~ ~ ~

Living in close quarters with four others, in a foreign country, no less, means JC hardly ever gets to be alone. There's always one or two of the others around, pressed close, talking, sleeping-- just _there_. And he's so damn tired all the time-- feeling closer to forty than the twenty years he really is.

Rehearsals, performances, photoshoots-- dressing up and being on show-- part of him thinks he should enjoy this more than he does. The singing and dancing, yes-- it's in his blood, it's what he lives for-- but it's not what makes him feel truly alive.

Because _that_ little secret is buried deep in the bottom of his battered suitcase, wrapped carefully in layers of thick, scratchy sweaters and warm, practical pants. A promise in silk and satin, a hidden part of himself stitched in delicate black lace.

And then comes one night when somehow the planets are magically aligned, and he gets a blessed block of time alone-- begging off a movie with the others, not really needing to feign the flush of fever that is rushing through him at the thought of what lies ahead. Behind a carefully-locked door, his skin is stretched thin and tight, and his heart beats in tripletime as he moves aside piles of rumpled clothing, until...until..._there._

He swallows, breathes through the light-headed rush and unwraps the corset and stockings, slides his fingers over the sleek silk of the panties, hears the gentle rattle of the tubes of makeup. He's hard, harder than he ever remembers being before, and his cock throbs between his legs as he undresses, fingers clumsy in his urgency. No time to shave his legs, and he curses softly as the fabric catches. _Slow down, slow down_, he thinks, even as another part of his brain urges him to hurry. It's not the same, not nearly enough time, and yet it's better than it's ever been because he's never wanted, needed it so badly before.

Fingers fumble again as he reaches for the thick liner, for the deep red lipstick, and it's almost like he's fifteen again and it's the very first time. Hands shaking, breath fluttering in his chest and _hurryhurryhurry_ in his head. He slides the corset on, cinches it tight, so tight, bites his lip to steady his breathing. For a long, terrifying moment he thinks he's going to faint, and the thought of being found like this sends icy fingers to wrap tightly around his heart, squeezing all the air out of his lungs.

_Breathe. Just breathe_. He does, and it passes, and he forces himself to slow a little, to take precious time to fasten the laces, tie them securely, pull on the cool, silky panties. His fingers still fumble a little, but it's ok, he can do this. He can and he does, and he looks at himself in the mirror, sees his own flushed and painted face staring back at him. He sees the rise and fall of his chest above the lace of the corset, the dusky shadow of his thighs in the stockings. And between his legs, his cock, so very hard, the front of the panties already slicked with moisture from the tip.

And then, his hand, snaking down, pinching at a nipple, sending electric shocks across his chest and down into his cock. He bites his lip again, hard enough to sting, sobs back a breath. He's crying and he doesn't know why, tears smearing the black liner, trailing it down his face. He reaches for his cock, cups and strokes it as he watches himself, and for a moment he doesn't hear the knock at the door. Then there it is again, and for an instant, he freezes.

Until he hears Chris' voice asking him if he's ok, babbling on about how he missed a great movie and JC's helpless to stop stroking himself, fast and urgent, coming so hard his legs won't hold him and he collapses back against the bed, shaking all over.

~ ~ ~

He finds them -- panties, stockings, corset -- by accident, cleaning out closets after Bobbie's left him for good.

JC would deny it to anyone, to everyone, but he's sulking a little. Pouting. No, his heart isn't broken, but it feels a little fragile, and he longs for something to make him feel safe again. To make him feel like maybe there's a place in the world for him that's just for him. For a while, he'd thought Bobbie was that place. For a while before that, he'd thought one other person...might be...before he realized that was a dream he could never have.

He put two dreams away at the same time, on the same night.

But now, he holds one of them in his hands again, a delicate pile of lace and silk, wrapped carefully in paper. A small pouch rattles against the wood of the drawer, and JC knows it's his cosmetics. He wonders if they're still good, if make-up has a shelf life. He stares at the pouch, then looks back at the paper in his hands, nudges it open to see black silk. It's been five years since he wore them, but one touch of his finger to the silk brings memories rushing back. Powerful memories that make his chest ache and his cock hard, and bring tears to his eyes.

He cried the last time he wore them. Cried without ever really knowing why. Maybe...maybe he knew before, somehow, that he would have to give it up. Now he knows he doesn't; knows he can do this every night if he wants. He's...he can.

It takes JC a minute to fully process that, for the ache and arousal swirling through him to recede enough for him to focus. He finds himself standing in the bathroom, staring into his mirror, and shudders at the look in his eyes. All pupil, like he's stoned, though he knows for a fact he's completely sober. All pupil, with a flush streaking lightly down his cheeks, his neck, and a hard, hot bulge tenting his jeans out.

His hands shake when he reaches to pull his tshirt off, when he reaches for the fastening on his jeans. They continue to shake when he strokes himself once, lightly, eyes closed tightly against the last memory connected with this. When he looks again, his eyes are still big, wide, hot-looking. Eyeliner makes them bigger, makes them dark and sultry like he remembers.

He takes his time, this time, after all it's his house, he's alone, no-one's going to bother him. Showers while the silk airs out, the soap bubbles zinging wildly across his skin. His cock is hard, so hard, and he aches deep inside in places he's forgotten about. JC takes himself in hand and strokes, slowly at first, then faster, thinking about the way the silk and lace will feel, sliding over his skin, about how pretty he looks, and how good he feels. He thinks about dark eyes and small hands, and remembers his dream of kissing a man while wearing the lingerie, and groans when whitehot heat sears through him, as orgasm boils up and out of him.

He _feels_ high, by the time he's done shaving his legs. Everything has a hazy look and feel to it, though JC knows it's real, knows he's doing this. Anticipation is tightly coiled in his belly now, and in spite of jerking off in the shower -- _or maybe because of it_ \-- he's hard again when he shaves his thighs then his pubes, fingers light on his dick, careful around his balls. He stares into the mirror for a long, long moment before shaving under his arms, then considers himself again before he strokes shaving cream across his chest. He nicks himself once, very lightly, as he scrapes around his right nipple. His cock throbs hotly, a solid weight between his thighs.

When he's ready but for the silk, JC stops again, stares into the mirror. It's his face, but it's not, staring back at him. It's been so long...so fucking long since he did this, and he hadn't realized until just now how much he missed it. How much he needed..._needs_ it.

He sits on the bed to dress, but spends a full five minutes just touching the silk, trailing the laces and ribbons of his corset through his fingers. So, so pretty, dances through his head. He remembers every single time he wore them, every time he touched himself through or under the filmy, silky material, every time he made himself come. He brings the panties to his face, to his nose, inhaling deeply. There's no scent; he washed them out after the last time he wore them, and then they were put away. If anything he smells a faintly lingering scent of soap, but that could be a sensory echo, nothing more.

They feel strange, but oh, so good, as he steps into them, as he pulls them slowly up his legs. JC groans softly when he pulls them all the way up, the silk caressing his dick so lightly, a quick tease of a kiss, of a touch, then blanketing him gently. He looks around, shivering wildly, wonders if he'll make it through the entire dressing before coming again. _Yes. Yes, I will._

The stockings hiss over his legs, and he hisses in turn when he strokes them carefully upward. He didn't do his nails -- didn't have any reason to think he'd be painting them -- but they're still filed and blunt from the last photoshoot, so no worries. Not that he cares, except dark red against black is so beautiful. JC makes a mental note to pick up some press-ons and nail polish at some point, acknowledging to himself he will do this again.

And again.

He can have this dream. It's his again.

Oh, Christ, the sensations rushing through him when he stands up and takes a step. Silk rubbing together, whispering to him in a soft, scratchy voice, cradling his dick. His head feels light, and he doesn't want to wait for the corset to come again; he could probably come over and over tonight, just the rush of what he's doing, what he's feeling. But no, the first time will be done the _right_ way, fully dressed in his silk, then spread over his bed. Wanton. Needy. Needing. He grips himself through the panties and pants softly while the hunger recedes just enough to keep from coming, then reaches for the corset. While it hangs loose and open on him JC stares into the mirror and pinches his nipples, fingers teasing, tugging, working the small, pink nubs until they're hard and tight, flushed a dark pink, aching as badly as his cock. He breathes in, then out, then tugs the laces tightly, closing the corset.

When he's done, panting again because he's so not used to this, to having his breathing restricted at all, he's amazed by the transformation. _Me, but not me. I look...beautiful. Free. A little...untamed?_ He feels free, for the first time in forever.

The feeling grows when he rubs himself softly, then more firmly through the silk of the panties. JC strokes, one finger teasing under the waistband, rubbing across the head of his cock, smearing the dribbles of pre-come that are welling up. Oh, god. Heat tears through him and he raises his free hand, rubs roughly at his chest, dips into the top of the corset to play with his nipples. His legs are shaky, he won't be able to stand much longer, not and enjoy this, so he stumbles back to his bed, feeling the catch and drag of silk on freshly shaved skin when he stretches out over the comforter. Then he's moaning, arching upward against his hand, fucking his hips and growling at the light, teasing friction. Sparkles of white and black prickle his vision; red joins them when he twists one nipple almost viciously. He shoves his hand down inside the panties, pushing them downward just enough to jerk himself once, twice, before he's arching off the bed, hips snapping quickly, come smearing over his fingers and soaking into the thin material of the panties as his body explodes with sensation.

He lies there, catching his breath, feeling the pinch of the corset with each breath he takes. It should feel wrong, he thinks-- maybe he should feel ashamed somehow, after the rush of pure need has faded a little. But it doesn't, he doesn't. He feels safe somehow, for the first time in a long time. This part of him, this secret part, is something he understands, even if he suspects no-one else would. A little world inside his head, a refuge he can retreat to when it all gets a little too much. Somewhere he belongs.

His only regret is that it's taken him so long to rediscover it, and that he felt he had to put it aside in the first place. That he felt he had to wrap part of himself up and away, push it way down inside, and not think about it. A dream he once had, and realizes he can have again.

Later, idly trailing his fingers over still-sensitive skin, JC wonders if it's possible to have the other dream, too.

~fin~


End file.
